


Think too hard

by Builder



Series: Spiderverse [9]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Gen, Headaches & Migraines, Hurt/Comfort, Peter Parker and the terrible horrible no good very bad day, Sickfic, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-05
Updated: 2017-11-05
Packaged: 2019-01-29 22:00:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12640029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Builder/pseuds/Builder
Summary: A migraine hits unexpectedly, and Peter doesn't want to worry his aunt.  He settles on calling the next-best person to help...





	Think too hard

**Author's Note:**

> This was a prompt from Tumblr. Find me at Builder051.

Peter’s home alone on a Wednesday night, picking thorough his homework and waiting for May to finish up her evening shift.  He’s been nursing a headache since lunchtime, and Peter’s used to that.  Food and ibuprofen usually put a damper on things, but not today. 

 

A throb flickers in Peter’s right temple, and his vision shifts weirdly, making the sheet of notebook paper in front of him appear faintly magenta, streaked with pencil marks of hunter green.  He blinks hard, and everything goes mostly back to normal.  Except for the cluster of stars working its way in an arch from one corner of his right eye to the other. 

 

It’s distracting as hell.  And screwing with is depth perception.  Peter starts scratching out another problem from his math assignment, but the numbers are all lopsided and hanging off the line, so he pauses.  Stares at them for a second.  Then fumbles for an eraser. 

 

Good thing this assignment isn’t due tomorrow.  He’ll never finish at this rate.  Peter heaves a frustrated sigh and lets his hand slacken over the resulting pile of rubber shavings.  A wash of apathy comes down from Peter’s head just as the ache in his temple decides to ratchet up a few marks. He drops the eraser and shuts his math book.  He’s starting to feel too ill to work anyway.

 

As he looks for the proper folder to stow away his homework, Peter’s head gets heavier and heavier.  He nearly slides out of his chair because the left side of his face seems to be leaden and drooping while the right just hurts.  It vaguely occurs to him that this isn’t good.  This is all wrong.  People…people go to the ER for things like this.  The exact word escapes him, but Peter wonders if he’s suffering a brain bleed, about to die in a pile of homework. 

 

Peter considers calling May, but his stomach clenches at the thought of sending her scurrying home early and losing precious hours of pay.  Either that or he’s just nauseous.  Regardless, his imminent death somehow seems less important than his aunt’s finances. 

 

But, god, he can’t just sit here.  The inside of his head feels like Bohemian Rhapsody, but the disorganized offshoots of electrical activity floundering in every direction are full of every kind of pain.  Peter unlocks his phone and scrolls through his contacts.  Ned can’t help.  He’s already decided against calling May.  He doesn’t know why he even has Flash’s number.  Whatever’s next on the list is too blurry to read…

 

He needs help.  He scans the list as best he can in his partially obscured, quivering visual field.  Then he comes to a promising name and presses the call button.

 

Peter waits, breathing through vertigo as the phone rings out.

 

“Mission reports go to Happy,” Mr. Stark’s voice says.  “Thank you and goodnight.”

 

“Wait, don’t—don’t hang up,” Peter gasps.  “I need…I can’t…”

 

Mr. Stark’s tone changes at the panic in Peter’s voice.  “Ok, kid, slow down.  What’s going on?”

 

“Something’s—”  Something’s __wrong__.  But…how the hell to articulate that word?  What letter does it start with?  How does that sound fit into his mouth?

 

“Kid?”

 

“I’m, I’m…”  Peter’s lost in aphasia.

 

“Are you drunk?” Mr. Stark asks.

 

“No.  My head,” Peter groans.  “My…I can’t see, I can’t…”

 

“Slow down.  I don’t get it.”

 

He sighs.  How to articulate in elusive words that __this__ is the problem?  He can’t think.  He can’t concentrate.  “I…my head hurts.  There’s…there’s lights, my face is falling off…” Peter slurs.  “I don’t…wanna die.”  He doesn’t mean to say it.  But it’s starting to feel like an increasingly plausible fear.

 

“Oh, kid,” Mr. Stark breathes.  “I think…have you ever had a migraine before?”

 

Peter shakes his head.  Then he remembers the gesture is no good on the phone, and he exhales, “No.”

 

“It’s a lot to experience,” Mr. Stark says.  “But you’re not gonna die.  I’ll be right there, ok?  You’re at home?  By yourself, I assume?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Ok.  Hold on a minute.”  The phone clicks as Mr. Stark hangs up.  Peter drops his forehead to his desk, hoping he can keep his stomach in place.

 

It turns out he can’t, and it’s all he can do to fling his homework and textbooks out of the way before he brings up a rush of sick over the scuffed tabletop in front of him.  Vomit runs off the edge and onto the floor, and Peter shoves his swivel chair back a couple feet to avoid getting a lapful of the mess.  He balances his elbows on his thighs and buries his face in his hands, relying on the pressure to prevent his head from exploding.

 

Time passes.  Or maybe it doesn’t.  Peter just sits there, swallowing hard so he doesn’t retch himself into a new level of brain-crushing pain.  There’s a tapping sound from outside his window, but he can’t make himself lift his head. 

 

The rusty metal tracks scrape as the slightly open window is pushed up.  “Kid?  Pete?”  Mr. Stark’s voice asks, slightly distorted by his ironman mask. The red and gold suit flies head first through the window, sending the dusty blinds rustling.  Peter can hardly spare a lift of his head before he’s gagging again and spilling acid and spit down the front of his t-shirt.

 

“Aw, geez, kid,” Mr. Stark says.  He hovers upright for a second, then releases himself to the floor.  His suit origami folds itself into a band around his forearm, leaving him looking unimposing and almost small in his civilian clothes.  He sinks down to his knees beside Peter’s desk chair.  “Not feeling good, huh?”

 

“Nuh,” Peter manages, swallowing impending nausea as best he can. 

 

Mr. Stark slides his fingers under Peter’s sweaty bangs.  “Well, no fever.  That’s something.”  He surveys the mess on the desk and floor.  “You think you’re done hurling?”

 

Peter shrugs.

 

“How ‘bout you spend a minute in the bathroom anyway?  It’ll probably be good to sit in the dark.”  Mr. Stark helps Peter to his feet.  “You know, I remember the first time this happened to me.  Was about your age.  At MIT.  Puked right in the middle of the physics lab,” he chuckles.

 

Peter squats, letting his weight leave Mr. Stark’s arm and drapes over the toilet seat instead.  “Ok.  You chill,” Mr. Stark says.  “I’ll, uh, clean up your room a little.”

 

Peter can’t will himself to say anything.  Mr. Stark pats him gruffly on the back and leaves, snagging a towel on his way.  Peter breathes deeply, practically feeling the scent of the bleach on the toilet water seeping into his head, running down his throat, and turning his stomach again.  He throws up a little bile, and the sound and the smell and the taste compound under his face and make him feel sick all over again. 

 

It dies down, though, eventually.  When Mr. Stark reappears to drag him to his bed, Peter’s not prepared to stand up, but at least his stomach’s mostly back where it belongs.  “Alright, just lie down,” Mr. Stark instructs, removing his hand from Peter’s shoulder once they’re a foot or so from the lumpy mattress.  “I’ll be right back.”  He bends to pick up Peter’s small trash can, which is overflowing with the now sick-sopped towel he’d taken from the rack. 

 

It’s a relief when the mess leaves the confines of the small room and Peter can breathe in clean air again.  The deeper and slower his breaths, the less static there seems to be around his eyeballs.  He drops his jeans and crawls into bed in his t-shirt and underwear, blissfully burying his head in his pillow and blocking out the rest of the world. 

 

“Alright, one last thing,” Mr. Stark says, his footsteps annoyingly loud as he approaches again.  He drops the empty and freshly-lined bin beside the bed, then produces a bottle of pills, a water bottle, and a straw.  “You’ll thank me when you’re doped up.”

 

Peter squints in the semi-darkness and holds out his trembly hand to accept the white tablets Mr. Stark offers him.  “That’s called Excedrin,” he explains.  “You’ll probably want to buy some.”  He drops the straw into the bottle of water next, holding it so Peter doesn’t have to move in order to gulp down a swig. 

 

Mr. Stark leaves the bottle on Peter’s bedside table.  “Ok.  You all set?  I owe you a towel, but I’ll deal with that later.”

 

“Thanks,” Peter murmurs. 

 

“Alright, see you later, kid.  Not tomorrow, just, whenever you feel better—”

 

The sound of a key turning in a lock stuns Mr. Stark to silence.  “Your aunt?” he asks, raising his eyebrows.

 

“Yeah,” Peter sighs.  He starts to sit up, but hits a wall of dizziness and has to press his face back onto his pillow.

 

“No, stay put,” Mr. Stark says.  “I got this.”  He moves into the doorway of Peter’s room and poses, leaning languidly against the frame.

 

Hardly a moment later, Peter hears May pad down the hall and give a little yelp of fright.  “What?  What’s going on?” she demands.

 

“Well, Pete here called and said he wasn’t feeling good and didn’t want to worry you, so I just thought I’d pop by.  I was…in the neighborhood.”

 

“Is he ok?” May asks.  Peter can see her concerned face peering around Mr. Stark’s frame to get a glimpse of him curled on his side in bed.

 

“Yeah, he just has a headache.  You know, like one of those stress migraines.  I gave him a little bit of Excedrin and put him to bed,” Mr. Stark says. “Well, I told him to go to bed.  I didn’t put…he’s not a little kid, and I’m not a creep, so.”

 

“Well, thank you,” May says, sounding grateful and still a tinge confused.  “What…Is there something I should do?  To make sure he doesn’t get another one?”

 

Mr. Stark shrugs.  “Let him skip school tomorrow.  I don’t expect him back at my office until he’s feeling better.  I can cut his internship hours if that’s adding to the stress.”

 

“Hey, no, you don’t, please don’t do that,” Peter mumbles.

 

“Go to sleep, kid,” Mr. Stark says.  He turns to face into Peter’s room.  “It’s taken me a long time to figure it out, but a solid two and a half decades of working too hard kind of makes you realize it’s not worth it.”

 

Hot tendrils of prickling nausea flare from Peter’s stomach to his throat to his face.  He tries to think of a decent response, but settles on just keeping his mouth shut.


End file.
